You Belong With Me
by themultifandomjess
Summary: A teen!lock songfic based on Taylor Swift's song 'You Belong With Me' from Sherlock's POV. Summary makes the story sound so incredibly dull I know, but as the expression says: 'Don't judge a fanfiction on the summary'...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**Nothing much to say really, except that rating may change as the story progresses and this first chapter is for the purpose of introduction/background.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 1: The Start of Something New**

As my brother will undoubtedly tell you (Mycroft never could learn to stay out of my business), it is of the most vital importance that no matter what, I must never be disturbed in the middle of an experiment. So when there was a loud THUD from downstairs (causing me to add more than the precise amount of glucose to my solution), you can imagine I was annoyed. Well like many other imbeciles, you'd be wrong.

I was _livid_. In fact so livid, I raced down the stairs to give the source of the disruptions a piece of my mind.

Upon my descent, I discovered the source of the commotion and just as I was about to chastise the doomed individual, I realised the words had just up and left my brain as easily as they had risen to the surface.

This should have been a warning in itself, nothing and certainly no-one, as much as Mycroft certainly tried to, could get Sherlock Holmes to hold back.

After what had seemed like hours, yet in actuality only mere moments, my brain eventually rebooted itself and began to process the scene and for the life of me I could not understand my brain's rash reaction. There was a small Transit van parked outside that I could see clearly see from my vantage point on the stairs (shabby state- indicative of low quality, hired by someone who clearly did not earn enough to go with more respected/higher quality company) half filled with boxes and a boy not much older than Sherlock himself judging by his height (slightly smaller than national average though not to a great extent) who was currently occupying himself with picking up textbooks (biology, bio-chemistry, English Literature and history) that now filled the narrow hallway, the now discarded box off to the side, showing that after several attempts of trying to manuever it in the doorway (flakes of paint matching that of the frame of the door on the scuff marks covering the sides of the forgotten box), the bottom had given out thus the multitude of books that now adorned the hallway.

Despite ascertaining the source of the disruption, I still could not fathom why I had reacted I did upon my arrival at the scene and as in other times of frustration, I let out an exasperated sigh, causing the boy to finally acknowledge my presence. He looked up at me and smiled (unusual, strangers don't normally react to my sudden appearances with such positivity- quite the opposite in fact, particularly when I catch them doing something that they ought not to be. Conclusion: unsure, more evidence needed, not enough data).

He then proceeded to stand up wiping his dusty hands on his jeans, drawing attention to his well toned legs (result of regular sporting activity- most likely football… Wait. Well toned? How did that thought enter my deductions? Irrelevant information. Delete), avoiding the dropped books and came over to me with his hand outstretched and shook my own, causing unprecedented shockwaves throughout my body (must investigate further).

The most alarming and intensely blue coloured eyes I had ever come across before looked directly into my own, seemingly to my core (never felt so open and bare before to _anyone_, even in the presence of Mycroft who always had an annoying knack of reading me like a book at his leisure) but this stranger's gaze felt different to that of my infuriating brother. Instead of an invasion of my mind, it felt more like I was _inviting _this boy to see the whole of me which is an unusual phenomenon to say the least.

Just when I felt that there was nothing else about this boy to startle me, he spoke just a sentence introducing himself, which (rather embarrassingly) elicited an unprecedented increase in my heart rate and shivers down my spine which I had to extend a lot of effort into ensuring he did not see my reaction. All he said was: 'The name is John Watson, you must be Sherlock Holmes.'

The words he spoke were neither life changing or astounding, at least that's what I led myself to believe. So why did it feel like, when he opened his mouth to say these words, that the life I knew was being thoroughly desecrated and something wholly unfamiliar and somewhat exciting was being built from the remains? That the world had started turning in the opposite direction? That my polarities were being reversed?

Either way, nothing would ever be the same again.

**Author's Note: **Reviews are to fanfiction writers as nicotine patches are to Sherlock, jumpers to John and Mycroft to his umbrellas, so please just spare a minute or two to tell me what you think, constructive criticism, the usual?

Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I can't believe this took all of a few hours to write, one of the most challenging things I have ever written (as an English Literature and History student, I know a fair bit about writing to a high standard xD)

Here's where the actual story begins! Enjoy!

**Chapter 2: A Study in Humour and Unrequited Love**

'_You're on the phone with your girlfriend ‒ she's upset,_

_She's going off about something that you said_

_'Cause she doesn't get your humour like I do.'_

One month and twelve days had passed since John Watson, son of my godmother's friend Anne Watson, arrived at Baker Street who was staying for the duration of his college years attending one of the finest colleges in the country which (coincidentally or rather fortunately for myself) was also the precise one I attended.

This intervention of fate had suited me immensely as it meant that I was able to spend a good proportion of my day with John, despite the difference in course choices (when he went to his Literature class, I went to my Physics class full of the normal teenage idiots like Victor Anderson and Sally Donovan_- obviously sexually involved despite Anderson's current relationship going by the state of Donovan's knees_) as our free periods coincided throughout the week.

No matter how much time we spent together, I always found myself longing for more time, feeling like a miser hording every minute spent with him. It was not only that I found myself longing for. We sat perhaps closer than social etiquette dictated, yet this close proximity was not enough; almost like John held his own gravitational pull, the closer you were, the stronger the force reeling you further in to the extent that not being in his presence caused a physical pain and mental fatigue unlike anything I have ever experienced.

His infectious smiles and laughs of pure and unbridled happiness became the sights and sounds that I lived for; that filled my dreams, my own personal drug. Like a drug addict, I could not get enough. If they were a result of something _I_ had done; an observation I had made, I felt the greatest sense of pride that I was, for all intents and purposes, repaying the eternal debt I owed whoever had sent this wonderful creation into my life with the happiness John Watson _deserved_. He had never once shunned me and seemed to understand me in less than a day where my entire family had struggled to do so for my entire life thus far. While he nowhere near me on an intellectual level, he was in a league above the rest of his peers in terms of intelligence and sheer _goodness_, possessing the social skills that had consistently evaded me.

The college administration had evidently foreseen my acquisition of a friend and I could not have timetabled our schedules better myself. The whole 'friend' situation contained elements of fiction as the dream of having a friend had been extinguished many years prior to my attending of college and in my wildest flights of imagination I could never have imagined having a friend like John Watson. Whilst appearing perfectly and boringly normal, I found myself discovering that for every thing I discovered about John, twelve more questions arose in its wake. For a seemingly normal person, he genuinely seemed to care about my wellbeing, whether it be nagging me to eat or protecting me from both the frequent verbal and physical attacks sent in my direction to the extent that for the first time in my academic life, people _left me alone_.

Unfortunately for me, the female half of the college population, whilst not having the observational skills of a Holmes, had also picked up on John's natural as breathing caring instinct, his athletic physique honed by years of football, startling blue eyes and sandy hair. By the end of the first day he already attracted the attention of practically every female he encountered without any effort on his part, meaning that it was with great disappointment but no real surprise that he attained a girlfriend (Sarah Sawyer- _average in terms of academic, but extremely popular with the rest of the student body, helped by being the head of the college's cheer team_) straight after his spectacular performance on the football pitch (a mere week into the academic calendar) in the first game of the year, singlehandedly commandeering the team to a 3-1 victory.

At the time, my brain had reacted in a way that shocked even myself (a recurring occurrence it seemed since John's arrival) seeing her saunter over and hug _my _John so fervently had caused a sensation similar to that (I imagine, having never experienced it before) of a knife twisting itself into my very heart and murderous anger to go coursing through my veins. '_How dare she touch what isn't hers?!' _the only thought breaking through the red haze that had descended in my mind, clouding all logic and reason. '_But then again_' he reflected, coming back to reality with an unexpected sadness, _'he isn't mine either.'_

Which is how we arrived at this point, one month and twelve days since John entered my life, with him in his room sharing an adjoining wall to my own, arguing on the phone to someone who could only be Sarah given her recent state of overreacting to everything John said and did (_how could she ever find fault with John? The one person who could singularly embody everything that is right with the world?_), consistently misconstruing John's humour as something negative directing at herself when in actual fact, it was _John _who John kept making fun of in that oblivious to his true worth and self-deprecating manner. Sarah clearly does not understand John like I do.

It had been one month, five days and two hours ago that I realised that I, Sherlock Holmes, had fallen in love with John Watson and there was no way he would ever love me back.

**Author's Note:** Hope you liked it as much I loved to write it despite its more taxing and complex/intricate nature.

My main concern with this chapter was that Sherlock acted too OOC for my liking. If you agree or have any other criticisms/positive comments, leave a review and it'll help me with the next chapter which will be uploaded as soon as I can write and send it off to my two trusted friends who will probably get fed up of this fanfiction soon xD

Until next time, I bid you farewell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note- **

First of all, let me apologise. I'm truly sorry for the long wait between updates, but sadly, college (and not the college of this story) has been getting in the way with exams, revision, coursework and just work in general have been getting in the way. But now things have calmed down again, a friend enquired as to how the fanfiction was going which is when I realised I have become a hypocrite. I get really frustrated when writers leave it months before they update again when I'd just started getting into the story and that's pretty much what I've done. Forgive me?

Oh and before Chapter 3 starts, I'd just like to thank **Guest**, **Northstar9195**, **Kayla**, **nannily**, **Serenityofthematrix **and **Orchfan** for your lovely reviews. You have no idea how excited I get when I read your reviews, your encouraging words are what motivated me to get this chapter written so thank you from the bottom of my writer's heart :D 3

Now read on, your chapter awaits….

**Chapter 3: Symphonies and Stories**

'_I'm in the room ‒ it's a typical Tuesday night._

_I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like._

_She'll never know your story like I do.'_

If it were not for John and investigating, my greatest love would be the violin. Even from the age of three when I came across the instrument, Mummy always wished to see me take it professionally or, as she put it 'possessing such a natural aptitude should never be squandered or cast aside as if worthless'. While I did not chase a musical career (nor do I ever intend to), my violin has remained a constant in the maelstrom of my life; something I am always in control of and helps focus my often convoluted train(s) of thought.

John understands this and has done from the day we met. Society seems to indicate that one should be rather irritated at being awoken in the early hours of the morning by your housemate/friend playing the violin at a perhaps questionable and disruptive decibel. I was so caught up in my newly evoked emotions and thoughts that I had neglected to take into account that sharing an adjoining wall with me meant that John would have to endure a much louder and harsher performance of Mozart's Symphony Number 40 than my godmother who was by now used to my night time recitals.

However, I did not realise my inconsideration until John brought it up much later on that day (lunchtime to be considerably more precise) with a simple 'So you play the violin then?', not even looking up from his Literature assignment to do so.

His natural smile had not waned in any way and there was no darkening of those wonderful eyes which I knew occurred only at John's angriest (thankfully they have never been aimed in my direction- only at those who tried to make my life a 'living hell' as the colloquialism goes. It seems to have worked, no-one has tried it again since John intervened- I know that faced with an angry John, _I_ would probably leave myself alone as well).

He must have sensed some of my internal discomfort, for he looked up from his work to look at me and say 'Oh don't worry about it, I'm used to being up at all hours, what with being a light sleeper and all the issues with Harr- Anyway, it makes a change from the usual disruptions, helped me finally nod off and have a decent night's sleep for once. Mozart was it?'

The genuine gratefulness and curiousity on his face astounded me, saturated my mind with inquisitive wonder. _How can he be so wonderful and accepting? Why have I been given this extraordinary gift? What have I done to deserve someone as understanding as John Watson?_

Somehow, I knew that I never wanted to find out these answers, I wanted to spend all my days trying to solve the unsolvable, always studying him, learning his habits and reading his facial expressions and body language.

Sarah did not like classical music. As if I had not been able to deduce this already _(cheerleaders notorious for following the latest trends in everything- music would not be an exception), _it was made painstakingly obvious on that weekend where she had stayed over (an unfortunately regular occurrence). I had gone to get my violin before remembering her aversion to the typical music I played to help John sleep and with a resigned sigh, I settled myself into my bed.

Sarah slept rather well that night.

John and I got none.

When it comes to knowing people and their pasts, I am at a somewhat considerable advantage to that of most of the people I encounter for the mere fact that whilst others see, I _observe._ So when it comes to knowing John Watson's background and life prior to meeting me, it is all too obvious.

One Tuesday night, completely out of the blue, John popped his head through my bedroom door and thanked me. Just thanked me.

My confusion must have been clearly etched on face (really, when did I get to be such an open book, _have _to control my expressions, who knows what people might pick up on) because he followed it up with "For not asking. About you know, my home life and all that before I came here. It can't be easy keeping all those little deductions inside that overactive brain of yours."

The genuine smile on his face convinced me that he was telling the truth (and besides, when has John ever _not _been honest?) and I felt the corners of my mouth turning upwards, as in a response to that beatific look on John's face, one that _I _was responsible for putting there (Sherlock: 1, Sarah: 0).

I had also come to the fact that while Sarah knew John, she did not _know _him. If she had, she would have known never to ask John to tell her about his life before moving here because she would have known that John never wanted to acknowledge that time in his life. As I could deduce everything that happened just from looking at him that first day, I never felt the need to talk about it with him. Why ask questions that you already know the answers.

Sarah will just never know his story like I do.

**Author's Note: **Don't forget to review ^.^


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